Taped
by Spitfire123
Summary: Another ficlet, this time it's about BLU Scout's hands. Why are they always taped? Somewhat angsty.
1. Chapter 1

No one knew why he taped his hands. Sometimes he, himself, didn't and couldn't remember during a ceasefire. But then he would unwrap them just to see the scars and burn marks, and immediately cover them back up. They were ugly, and they would never disappear.

They were what made him disgusting. It was them who marked him.

It was those bastards that made him impure.

* * *

The event was still, and forever would be, vivid in his mind. He tried not to think of it much, and it would only ever enter his thoughts after a days worth of fighting. He would stare at his hands, eyes already drooping and, in his tired, hazy state, he would pull the sticky tape from the back of his hands first, then the palms. He would bite his lip as the tender, reddened flesh was tugged on, but continued. He wouldn't stop until he could set his gaze upon the damaged limbs. He wouldn't stop until his pain had been relieved, even just for that night.

It was tedious, trying to still questions. It ended up becoming a long winding lie. But then again, his whole life was a lie. He was a mercenary, cheating death thirty times a day for fucks sake. If you thought that he didn't have to lie about that, you must be damn retarded.

Of course, he could handle it. He always handled it. Handled it good.

It was never a problem for him until he took up the mercenary job. Before, he easily blocked it from his mind, and forgot. But now, with bullets wizzing past him from every direction, with rockets or rifles being held to his face at every waking moment, it was impossible. He jerked, mind elsewhere, whenever their resident soldier woke him with a launcher stuffed in his mouth. He flinched every time the pyro spy-checked an unsuspecting spy (who was sleeping with his mother, FYI). He gave a small growl every time a spy backstabbing an unwary sniper, no matter which team the spy was on.

... Alright, the truth.. Well, he can't handle it. He can't handle the truth or his memories.

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**A/N: I'm not sure where these keep coming from.. This is another ficlet like the pyro one, but this actually has somewhat of a plot? I'm still not sure... YOU CAN'T HANDEL DA TRUTH.**

**edit: prequel is next chapter. have... angsty stuff.**


	2. Chapter 2

His whines and whimpers met the ears of no one, the cold winter's night eating away at the thin jacket bundled around Jacob's shoulders. The winter season was never kind to him, and his body is shook to the core with Boston's harsh winds and chills. But tonight, tonight seemed off. Tonight it was more than the harsh weather that made him miserable. It was a nagging persistence that he could feel at the back of his mind, someone, or something, was with him. He checked the surroundings again.

But he was alone on the streets. All alone, and cold. The alleyways were filled with hobos and the unemployed and the gamblers.

He shrugged and moved on, treading on the sidewalks carefully, being wary of any ice that may linger there.

But as his eyes were scanned the cement, two figures grabbed his arms, dragging him away into one of the alleyways. This one, however, was cleared of low-lifes, meaning no sign of help.

Jacob struggled and spat like a frustrated feline, going so far as to kick one of his captors with his heel. But in return, his arm was twisted so ferociously that his joint was dislocated with a sickening pop. He knew what was happening, and he had begged to God it wasn't. Shit, he was fourteen! No, no, this couldn't.. shouldn't be happening!

His captors were a part of a gang that rivaled his brothers gang, and he recognized them. If only they realised that he was not the way to do things, nothing would happen if he was hurt. No remorse, no agony, and no revenge. There would be no payback. And they would get no reward.

His body is stripped of his jacket, left in a wifebeater and a ripped pair of old jeans. The chilled air reaches his body, and within moments, bumps form on his skin as shudders rack his body. Winters in Boston were never kind to him.

The two men exchanged sick smiles, gripping Jacob's arms harder as he struggled to be free of their hands. The snow was falling freely now, coverly the three bodies in a sheet of white. His arm ached with dull pain, throbbing inconsistently in the men's hands.

Then, the first hit fell upon his face, instantly causing a dark bruising. Then another, and then another, until he lost track of how many times he had been hit, and how long? Had they been here for a few minutes or an hour? Were they going to let him go soon, or keep him for a lot longer? Was this just a lesson to his brother, or did he, Jacob Burke Hawkins, do something wrong? He could feel his face swelling, turning gaudy colors as soon as the fists halted their assault on his face and turned elsewhere.

Jacob gave up, turning to spit blood into the snow. His grunts of pain were not heard over the winds, and his heart sped up when the man grabbed one of his hands, giving Jacob a toothless grin.

'What do you say Jake-' The boy flinched.

'Don't call me that..' He whimpered, and the men laughed, only after giving his bruised face a harsh slap.

'Them smarties up at BU say the hands are the most sensitive place on your body. Why don't we make sure they're right?' The man speaking fished something from his pocket and brought it into view.

It was a cigarette lighter. Red, not ordinary in any way. At first, the men had trouble igniting it in the wind, but after a couple minutes, the two had gotten a minute fire going, grinning ear to ear at their miraculous work. They forced him, by gunpoint, to squat next to it.

One of them grabbed his hand, hovering it just above the flames, relishing in the young boys whines of pity, while the other watched with impatience.

In a flash, his hand was submerged in the orange flame, and Jacob barely managed to withhold a strangled moan of pain, tears falling down bruised cheeks. He tried, without success, to pull his hand from the burning heat, but the man just gripped his wrist tighter, and the other just fiddled with the safety of the .45 Colt.

When he had the chance, he pulled his hand from the fire quickly. He eased the steaming flesh onto a pile of snow, letting the frozen water melt away on the burn. The same was done to the other hand, but this time, his screams of pain were heard, but soon forgotten by passersby.

When Jacob looked down as his deformed, seared, and quickly swelling hands, he vomited. The mixture of the pain and the sight of blackened tough muscle was more than enough.

The men watched with amusement, as the boy, a mere child, whimpered and cried in pain. They shot spats, and remarks at Jacob until he was shivering with more than just cold and pain. He was trembling with insecurities, helplessness, and misery, three things that would haunt him to no end.

He was scarred, burnt, and the men, after the sickening flames, had defiled him.

And yet, when morning came, he took the energy to bundle himself up again and return home, head held high, and tears wiped away.

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**A/N: ... well... there's your sequel-er prequel to the previous chapter. So, uh... I'm sorry. It isn't the best I could do, but I'm tired, I hate early finals.. Well, uh, thanks for reading, I guess. You could always fav or review? *hopeful smile***


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